Trees and Porcelain
by Elinde
Summary: The army is waiting, and wandering while it waits. Some companies are set a path through Doriath, long since abandoned. The enemy is less likely to find them in there, but they may not have to...


**Disclaimer: characters, places and events belong to Tolkien. **

A/N: I try not to publish two things on one day but I'm going to today.

This is a longer version of something which will appear in a long fanfic I'm planning. But seeing as I don't know when I'll get round to writing the longer story I'm posting this stand alone version now.

* * *

Dead.

All of it.

Not waiting for spring. Just dead. It was Spring already, in some world where time still mattered.

This was it.

This was everywhere.

Desolation.

Not just a lack of life. This was more than that. It was a hole. An ache.

The end.

This was Doriath. He knew that only because he'd been told. It was removed, nowhere, some static place.

It was Hell.

It had split into companies. The army. All going in the same direction. Harder to wipe out that way. They were so few.

Just for a while. A breathing space. They would walk right across…

Bark had been stripped. The dying trees contorted in their agony.

Silence.

No leaves. Those still on the ground cracked underfoot.

Dead things.

No animals. No food. They were starving.

That he could cope with.

Til he fell down.

It was this place.

This place that made him shake.

Made him weep.

Made him hide deep deep within.

Glassy eyes.

This wasn't Doriath it couldn't be. This wasn't even a forest. It was a desert of trees.

_Help will come. It must._

The words had lost their meaning.

White things stuck up from the ground. Bleached by the sun.

They were everywhere.

They were dead too.

They were more common on this side of the Esgalduin.

Neldoreth. Forest of Song.

The leaves on the ground may well have been orange once. They were brown now. Or grey. Dry as tinder. There had been fires here before. The ground showed the marks.

"You must sleep."

It was his father's voice, soft as always.

He was too tired to argue, so lay down he did. It was the ninth hour after dawn; the sun was still strong in the sky. But he slept anyway. His father beside him. He could hear the crackling of leaves as he shifted even through his sleep.

It was evening when he woke. No fire. They couldn't risk setting fire to the leaf litter. He was facing away from the rest, but a face still looked at him. A white face, Eyeless. Sightless. It held him with an eternal stare.

He could feel the tear running from his eye to the ground, the slight yet unstoppable shaking. But he was numb. Felt dead. As dead as the skull he looked at. This was outside him. Everything was.

They were everywhere here.

His father's hand seemed distant as it roused him. For the morsel that passed as food. He saw the bones, said nothing. Eased his son up off the ground.

Marching again. They had been in that spot for too long already.

A crunch underfoot. He looked down. Brittle shards, porcelain around his boot. He stood there until ordered to keep walking.

On and on and on. Nowhere to run. Everywhere was like this.

No one had buried his mother's parents either.

Brittle bleached bones with Grandma and Grandpa etched into their foreheads.

This was Doriath.

But it wasn't.

This was what there was. This was all there was.

And beyond the grasslands were brown.

Silence.

This was reality.

Green pastures. Living forests. Those were the dreams.

This couldn't be real.

He heard the scream. It came from him but was not of his making.

"This isn't real!" His voice shouted. "This is Hell. This is dead. We are dead! This can't be real this isn't real…"

His father's voice, trying to sooth. He pulled his son against him. He knew the armour was cold, knew his hand now rested on his father's shoulder. But he felt nothing. And nothing his father could say would stop the cries. Because they weren't coming from him. He had locked himself away long ago.

"Shut him up!" Others hissed. "Who knows what he'll attract."

"I'm sorry," said another. He stepped towards the father with desperate eyes. The father moved away, dragging his son with him. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. He needs to stop."

Pain.

It was late at night now. They were somewhere else. Camped again. He was lying down so he sat up. The eyeless-eyes danced before him. His father's hand on his back. What would he do if his father wasn't there?

He pulled up his knees and brought his hand up to his face. He muttered. He rocked on the uneven ground.

This wasn't real.

This was death.

Just death.

This wasn't real.

Tears ran freely down his cheeks.

"Is there really nothing we can do?"

"Nothing. Except get out of the forest. The host is regrouping. Not long now. And help _will _come."

He had run down these paths, laughed here. Lived here. No sound. No emotion. Just pictures.

They said no one could get here.

They had come.

They had lied.

All of them.

Who were they?

They couldn't have lived here.

Surely.

This was a nightmare.

He felt nothing.

You felt nothing in dreams.

This wasn't real.

It went on and on.

White bones in the sun.

He couldn't breathe.

His father's cheek was against his.

His father was drawing shuddering breaths.

He couldn't breathe either.

Another face watched him.

A white face.

Sightlessly.

The host was black and silver and brown.

Led by tall Elves with stony expressions.

Five. Seven. Three.

The number of Elves per company lost in the woods.

Mad.

No.

Vacant.

Overwhelmed.

Yes.

Dead.

Yes.

"The fighting hasn't even started yet…"

Tall Elves on horses.

Tall Elves on horses who had gone round Doriath.

Tall Elves on horses who had gone round Doriath and had been saved from the porcelain in the ground.

The grass was green.

It was windy.

People were looking at him.

But he was not there.

He swayed where he stood. He whispered under his breath.

"This is not real."

They hadn't lost anyone, these tall Elves on horses.

"We're sorry," they said. "We did not know."

"Help will come. It must…"

* * *

A/N: I'm explaining the time period now rather than at the top because it's easier for people to ignore if they wish to:

It's set after the Third Kinslaying but before the War of Wrath, a time where in my headcanon the resistance was spread out across Doriath even though it was moving in the same direction. And everyone's waiting for the help of the Valar in this desolate land.

I don't know how good this is; it comes from a very vivid image I had of a desolate, dead beechwood with bleached bones littering the floor. The viewpoint slowly pans round to reveal... this young Elf in leather armour. He looks scared and his eyes are wide but he's silent and his gaze is vacant. His hair is long and has twigs and dead leaves stuck in it. Maybe an older hand comes into view and takes some of them out. Either way you know this young Elf has been in this lifeless environment for a very long time, and that it used to be very dear to him but now he's not even sure which way is up. If I had artistic talent I would have drawn it instead, but I don't so it's in words.

And even though I didn't mention names I'm sure it's easy enough to fill them in. This is new headcanon but I think it works better than how it was before.

I know I write fanfics like this often but I make no apologies ;)


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